


The Love & Affection of a Witcher

by spica_starson



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Brotherly Love, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Familial Love, Family, Friendship, Gen, Geralt's many forms of love with the people he care about, Love, Parental Love, Platonic Love, Romantic love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25162888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spica_starson/pseuds/spica_starson
Summary: Love is said to have many forms, depending on who the other person is: Geralt is no different.Phillia, storge, eros, pragma, agape...This is a story of how Geralt’s way of showing his love and physical affection evolves throughout the series—told in 5 acts with five important people in his life.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Eskel, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 5
Kudos: 40





	The Love & Affection of a Witcher

**Author's Note:**

> The description of the love types was taken from [this site](https://www.ftd.com/blog/give/types-of-love) fyi. A midnight thought about Geralt's character arc in the series and how he's both not the most affectionate person and also a gentle soul inspired me to write this haha. Enjoy!

* * *

**1\. Storge (i) — Vesemir** ****

_" **Storge** is a naturally occurring love rooted in parents and children, as well as best friends..."_

* * *

Parrying. A pirouette. Another parry with a twist. Rinse and repeat. 

Behind humongous castle walls the young Witcher trained, instructions and admonishments beat mercilessly into his skull, their fencing instructor not allowing even the tiniest of missteps to fester in their bones and grow into something deadly.

“A single slip up and you will be monster fodder before you lads could even say bloody nekkers,” barked Vesemir, scarred eyebrows knitting together brooking no arguments from them.

The white-haired boy who looked to be in his fifteenth or sixteenth year pursed his lips and corrected his stance once more, waiting as Master Vesemir’s amber eyes (just like him—him and his brethren) swept over the group of Witcher-to-be’s before him.

“Eskel, lift your right hand just a tad- yes. Good lad. Now show the boys beside you how it’s done.”

Geralt watched with bated breath as their mentor walked across the field, personally correcting the stances of the pupils in his path, stern and efficient. Finally, as the ancient Witcher reached the white-haired boy, Geralt gripped his sword tighter, his nerves getting the better of him.

“At ease, Geralt,” snapped Vesemir, shaking his head. “You’re not meant to beat a creature senselessly, my boy. Feet apart- yes. Fingers more loose around the hilt for better articulation. That’s right. You’ve clearly been practicing with Eskel, eh?”

With a brisk yet powerful nod, the young witcher-in-training repeated what the instructor had shown them earlier perfectly, prompting a pleased hum from the man.

“As usual, boy,” smiled Vesemir, a deep booming sound that vibrated in the air around him. “Those extra potions are clearly not wasted on you.” A quick pat on the head and he was off to see to another student.

Geralt’s chest swelled with pride.

000

“Are you certain you have everything you need?”

“Yes, Vesemir. I am certain. I’ve double-checked all my supplies last night, with the help of Eskel and the others. We all did.”

A grave nod.

“Then it is time.”

In a few short strides, the old man came upon the younger witcher, standing still, taking the sight of him one last time.

Then without warning, he reached out to circle his heavy arms around the white-haired young’un.

Geralt, unused to this open show of affection from his mentor, stiffened—arms hanging taut on both his sides. 

It lasted only a few seconds, though in his mind it had been much longer. Then Vesemir had smiled, a rare feat by itself, and squeezed his shoulder.

Geralt left, his strong steed beneath him, never once looking back.

He was ready.

* * *

**2\. Phillia (i) — Eskel**

_" **Philia** is love without romantic attraction and occurs between friends or family members..."_

* * *

They were inseparable.

Among the many other kids in the Keep, the two of them were clearly tied to the hips; pranks upon pranks played and widely known by all in Kaer Morhen. When one would cause mischief, the other was surely not far behind.

Geralt remembered meeting Eskel not long after his arrival in the Keep.

Small but bursting with muted energy, the boy had latched onto him like a yapping puppy; and Geralt wasn’t too ashamed to admit he was the same. Patient eyes and wide grins won him over, and they slipped and sneaked all across the castle; sometimes making the life of their tutors hell just for the fun of it. Only a bit though. Vesemir's skin their hides again if they crossed a line like last time.

Despite all the odds against them, as trials upon trials fought against their feeble bodies, little Geralt and Eskel persevered, always clinging onto each other quick and tight after another particularly painful stage.

When he came out with white hair one day, black seeped out of the very last of his roots, Geralt let Eskel fuss over him; sitting still as he prodded him with questions and demanded explanations for this unexpected turn of events.

“What did they do to you?! Why are you the only one—” he stopped, biting his lips. The older boy was scowling, that much was obvious. Concern and anger swirled around his aura in violent waves.

“I earned it,” explained the now-white-haired youngster to his friend patiently. “Said they saw my potential and wanted to make it absolute certain. I agreed.”

Eskel stared at him, mouth pulled thinly.

“Did you want it at the very least?”

Meeting his friend’s unnatural yellow eyes steady and firm (just like his, just like everyone in this Keep—his brethren, his _family_ ), Geralt bit out:

“I did.”

And that was the end of it.

They hugged again as they usually did, swift and meaningful, the few seconds they shared enough to convey all the relief and joy Eskel felt.

The same emotions filled him whenever he met his brother in all but blood, as he wintered every few years in Kaer Morhen. Another year they survived. Another year of perseverance and survival.

New scars and disfigurement donned their skin in the time they spent apart, stories and experiences shared once they met again, years or months past.

But their hugs stayed the same, dependable and familiar— _home_. 

Geralt cherished it every single time.

* * *

**3\. Philia (ii) — Dandelion**

_"...It occurs when both people share the same values and respect each other — it’s commonly referred to as “brotherly love.”"_

* * *

Meeting the bard in Gulet had been purely coincidental. Lady Luck smiled playfully upon the young poetaster as their paths crossed, though trouble seemed to follow him wherever he went. Geralt surprisingly found it in himself to help out this poor stranger, giving him a chance to escape his angry pursuers before the poet inadvertently stuck by his side “just in case they came back for him”.

Geralt relented.

Perhaps it was pity. Or perhaps loneliness had been plaguing his mind as of late; roaming around the Continent killing one beast after another with minimal to no meaningful contact with other sentient beings around him other than the exchange for money; too scared to even dare initiate anything beyond the most required of interactions.

Beings that did not scorn your services or existence with judging eyes that followed you no matter where you went.

Beings that seemed to tolerate your lack of finesse, that seemed to truly enjoy your company despite the consistent reminders of his nonhuman attributes.

Beings that did not fear the swords on his back at first sight, nor his unnatural golden eyes that can change at will. Who accepted him for who he is.

As the months went by, Geralt was struck by a dreadful realisation that he quite liked Dandelion. Even enjoyed his company—despite the incessant rambling and daily strumming of his lute that hummed noisily in the back of his mind, not to mention the many incidents the bard would inadvertently get himself into. The exchanges they had were often quite frank and biting, even vicious to those who observed from the side, but it was never enough to wound the other. Geralt found that the bard appreciated his honesty; as did he.

His personal quirks grew on him as time passed, the witcher learning which ones to pay attention to and which to tune out. Decades he lived, occasionally travelling with one individual or another strictly out of necessity and the nature of the circumstances, but never had one came back time and again because they wanted to. And he to them, for the simple reason to stave off the quietness of his lonesome.

Years on the Path and Geralt finally understood the joy of having someone by your side for nothing more but your presence. A companion.

He was his polar opposite, and yet.

And yet.

Heart on his sleeves, open for anyone to see; offered freely to every beings that he fancied and would accept him, Dandelion sang about their travels and adventures, about tragedy and romance (both his own and other's), always making sure to exaggerate or deviate from the source to embellish the story further, laughing and shaking his head at his friend’s disapproving look. 

“That is simply the nature of poetry, my dear witcher. Trust the words of a professional, if you will.”

Rolling his eyes, Geralt accepted the questionable explanation against his own judgement and trusted.

They got along better than he himself had expected and the witcher didn‘t know what to do with that fact at first.

So they continued on. Dandelion stayed, as did Geralt.

Because even he was not foolish enough to disregard a gem found amongst the rubble.

000

Physical contact had always been more for survival in Geralt’s case. Either survival or pleasure—there was no in between. 

Sharing body heat, or bunking side by side due to a lack of other pallets is within reason. Physical intimacy in beds with people he paid for was simply another side activity he indulged in whenever his needs urged him and his coin pouch agreeable.

Other types of contact either end up with you dead with a claw or spikes to your back, or something more sinister from what humans would conjure up.

The massacre had made him more aware of this possibility, the threat to his life now extending towards the very beings they were supposed to protect.

With the exception of his brothers in Kaer Morhen, Geralt found it easier to just avoid them altogether.

So when Dandelion hugged him the first time they parted ways as the first browning leaves started to fall, the morning after their stay at a reasonably-priced inn in a remote village just between the outskirts of Redania and Kaedwen, he froze.

The bard had apparently no care for the lack of reciprocation, patting his back good-naturedly before pulling away with a knowing smile. The hug was...it was. Nice. Different. Longer from the ones he shared with Eskel and his brothers back home.

It was gentler but no less firm, warmth in its touch not unlike a fresh wave of new spring. The simple intimate act so casual yet brimming with trust.

Geralt revelled in it.

Throughout the many years of their friendship, the two would meet again after a couple of months before branching off from their joint paths as usual to tend to their respective businesses, and every time, he made sure to give his friend the best hug he could possibly offer.

Smiling, the witcher soaked in the last vestige of joy he felt clinging onto him after the farewell embrace, Roach an ever-so-constant and familiar presence on his side. Just like Dandelion. They’d meet again one day after all, ready with his quips and him his sarcastic remarks.

* * *

**4\. Eros + Pragma — Yennefer** (and others)

_" **Eros** is a primal love that comes as a natural instinct for most people. It’s a passionate love displayed through physical affection. This love is a desire for another person’s physical body."_

_" **Pragma** is a unique bonded love that matures over many years. It’s an everlasting love between a couple that chooses to put equal effort into their relationship. Commitment and dedication are required."_

* * *

This feeling in his blood, bursting and turning his insides into liquid, burning with a passion he never knew existed in him. Geralt wondered if he could die from how intense it was.

Is this love?

It circled them, entrapped them, the witcher finding no escape and not having any desire to escape- until he did. When it all became too overwhelming, suffocating him with its cages, no freedom in sight. He ran.

But until then and after, he held Yennefer close in the light of their afterglow, pressing a kiss to the corner of her violet eyes. Not cold. Loving.

Like storms violently raging against the wind, birthing whirlpools that desecrate everything lying in their wake.

Lightning and the thunder, always a pair but never together. Destined for each other but clashing like a pair of blades.

But they always find their way back to one another, and that’s what matters. Painful as it was, but they did.

Geralt found out how it meant to hold someone like they were the world to him, someone precious; never to let go.

Gentle and loving, like a caress of a tame wave lapping on the beach after a tsunami. Close to his heart, where they belonged—where he belonged in theirs.

Even as their hair burned vermillion like flame instead of the night sky, locks too straight to be wavy, eyes the wrong shade of hue, he held them close in his arms, the love and yearning in him too much- too overwhelming to be kept within for long, threatening to engulf his very being and tear apart his soul. His memories always flew back to her. Only her.

Yennefer taught Geralt how to hold someone with all his love and never let go, a silent plea to stay- and she never left his heart. 

Never.

* * *

**5\. Storge (ii) — Ciri**

_"...It’s an infinite love built upon acceptance and deep emotional connection. This love comes easily and immediately in parent and child relationships."_

* * *

A child he called his own. Not by blood, nor by destiny alone. But by something more.

Something both more complex and yet simpler in its truth than anything else in his life.

Something that lives in his heart, a fierce wildfire raging at the thought of her in danger.

And as the small child clung to him, his knees too weak from both fatigue and the onslaught of emotions to hold him upright, Geralt fell into her arms, breathing in the scent of the child he had thought was lost to him forever.

 _We’ll be together forever, won’t we? Say it!_ his little Ciri had shouted, tear-stained and happy, bright green eyes wide open in an unconfined joy only a child could have. 

Geralt buried his face in mousy blond hair, his grip gentle but desperate, holding on tight.

_Forever._

For once in his faithless life, Geralt believed. Even if the whole world were to pry them away from each other, he’d find her. Even if the gods themselves kept her from him, he would fight tooth and nails, fangs and claws against them to reach her.

000

When nightmares plagued the poor child, helplessness wrought over the Witcher at his inability to fight the horrors that occupied her dreams, cursing and promising vengeance on whoever dared cause this upon her.

Geralt shushed her softly, arms encasing the small figure in a poor attempt to soothe her despite him not having much experience in this. All he had going for him was the memory of Vesemir on his side after a particularly nasty side-effect of another trial, his presence a cool balm on his heart; an anchor in the sea of terror and pain.

Fingers gently wading through locks of hair, shushing.

“It was a nightmare, nothing more,” he murmured, “I’ll keep you safe, girl.”

Even as years pass by, the little girl growing up into her adolescence; with a huge scar marring her cheek to show for the horrors she’d gone through, a mark of her will and courage, the echo of innocence but a shadow behind her, Geralt still felt the need to protect her as strong as that day outside the small hut in Lower Sodden. Even in Brokilon, before he knew who she was.

Like the time he leapt and defied the laws of the world to soften their fall in Kaer Morhen, the girl tucked safely in his chest as she sniffed through her apology and him in turn. Or the fear he felt eating him from the inside out as he scoured the Continent in search for his ward, the dreams connecting their fate both a blessing and a curse.

It was always there, always will be—despite him knowing how capable she was now. That he himself had a hand in making sure she could take on the whole world if need be.

Geralt learned to love and care for a child like his own—his wolf cub, as Dandelion had worded fittingly, and he would bring it with him till the end of his days.

**Author's Note:**

> I just think his relationships in the book are just too beautiful<3 I hope I did them justice...especially Yennefer. You might notice that I don't- rarely ever write romance, for good reason too lol. She ended up being the shortest but I think it's enough.
> 
> Comments/feedback are more than welcomed!


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